Confused
by Adnesle
Summary: Happens during the third season episode Sanctuary. A Sandoval vignette. Not very interesting, but a way of how could things have turned out. Not AU.


CONFUSED  
  
The blonde lady had left him to continue his inspection of the Psychiatric Institute on his own as she was needed elsewhere. And as his steps wandered, his mind did as well. Thinking about this new persona: this new player at the game of Synod politics. T'than, who very obviously intended to take Zo'or's place and to remove from his position and possibly from this plan of existence as well, for they seemed to hate each other strongly enough. Usually, he would not have manifested any interest in this quarrel. Like he had been a mere observer, sometimes becoming executor, of this never-ceasing mild conflict between Da'an and Zo'or, their allies with them, permanently parting the Synod in two definite entities: one that thought, that claimed the current one was the correct course of action to take, led by Da'an, those Taelon who actually minded, to different level, about humanity; and one that acted, that took measures, that solved conflicts one after the others instead of  
concentrating on the MAJOR problem, led by Zo'or. The whole problematic was that the flux amongst the Synod members convictions often caused them to switch side.  
  
Sandoval was familiar as an operative with both as he had secretely worked with Da'an against Zo'or whose views are definitely dangerous for humanity's uncertain future and with Zo'or against Da'an because he did not wish to blow his cover up.  
  
And there was T'than, that could not be put neither in Zo'or's side because they could not stand each other. Nor in Da'an's side because their view were radically different. The first impression he had gotten from this Taelon, some weeks ago when he had come to him, explaining him that he firmly intended to remove Zo'or from his seat, was one of dread. With all the sincerity he had with himself, definitely one of dread. The dread that if T'than took over the Synod, that Earth's fate was sealed in a rather negative way. The dread that this War Minister knew virtually nothing about Humans but the very basic. And the dread that had been the almost clear threat in his voice when he had adressed him, about his loyalties, and more specifically if there were a possibility that they might... change.  
  
But most of all, T'than was more dangerous than Da'an or Zo'or could ever have been simply because he was no diplomat, because what it looked like, the appearances, did not matter for him. He did not care if his moves were going to look like an invasion of Earth, because it WAS an invasion.  
  
Sandoval as stiffly as ever walked in front of a door that seemed as all the previous doors he had seen on his way here... All except from this... blueish light coming from the small crack formed by the space between the floor and the door itself. This wavering light.  
  
He pushed quietly and slowly against the door: it was not locked, it was even not closed. It cracked open and the agent continued to push it forward until he could step in keeping the noise at a minimum. Some stairs, and then what curiously looked like a secure room in the basement, with thick stoned walls. It also was decorated with all kind of letters pinned on the walls, love letters. He assumed he had discovered the secret love nest of two patients resident here.  
  
And there lay Zo'or, curled up on himself, in a thight ball on the couch, his natural form sending tendrils of energy around himself and through the material of the couch itself and even through the floor as it seemed. Sandoval paused on his way down from the stairs and feeling his skrill tense, responding to his order to collect energy from his neural system and transforming into physical and offensive energy blast, he raised his right arm, his hand curled into a fist, the wrist down not to burn his skin against the bio-mechainc weapon discharge of energy. He slowly pointed it at Zo'or.  
  
T'than would be happy of him if Zo'or was killed by his own hand, would make him his protector, his attaché, perhaps some more, so he would get more... possibilities to sneak into the Taelons' systems. Though the War Minister had not spoken it out loud, the FBI agent was simply certain that it was going to be for the best of his loyalties.  
  
On the couch, Zo'or shivered, quivered, and his body went through visibly painful convulsions that left the alien's breathing sharp and rasp-sounding. Seeing that the former Synod Leader was not on the point to awaken, that his current state was surely more of a coma than a real sleep, the implant lowered his weapon and stepped down further until his feet touched the ground. He was mere meters away from Zo'or. His left hand slipping into his coat pocket, he felt there the few patches Mit'gai had given him to use. But his skrill was still tense, nervous and ready to fire, in less than a second it could destroy all that had represented his hate, the very symbol of his quest to vengeance, the symbol of those who had shattered his life and ripped his own mind off of his body.  
  
But lying there, defenseless, Zo'or seemed like a child, an alien child, an irresponsible child, a dangerous child yes, but a child still. He had always thought he would ceize the first occasion that would pass... to kill Zo'or, to be done with him just once... just for the pleasure to see the horror look crossing his features as he would understand what he had failed to notice behind his back... Just to see him scared of death. To master for one single time, the one who had mastered him since the day he had come to his service. And it would justify by all means T'than's trust, to him, and to no other Human.  
  
The asian man lost himself in the contemplation of this Taelon, crumpled on the couche, tense, remaining unconscious as the convulsions spread through his body, making his pathways flash painfully. The features had now lost the icy mask they were usually covered with, this one only expression that he had seen only once on the Synod Leader's face, on of peace... as he slept, though now he was more unconscious than asleep and rather painfully so, but still. This peaceful look on his former master's features as he could not and would not control what could be seen of him, reminded him of what had happened... three months ago, before the resistance failed coup on the mothership, two or three days before the elections...  
  
He mentally relaxed as his eyes outside became distant and clouded, to see on the inside.  
  
The mothership was entering its night period, the lights were dim, the volunteers were retreating to their quarters, letting their vacant place to the taelon staff members and the night human crew. The bridge was dimly lit also. In fact lit only by the pinkish light emanating from Zo'or's form, reclined in his chair, though the energy stream was not on, and by the stars, visible through the huge bay window of virtual glass.  
  
The implant remarked as soon as he stepped on the desert bridge that Zo'or was resting, not in the usual way Taelon rested, but then, Zo'or did not do many things as other Taelons used to. He had promised to himself that he came here only to check one single data, that he would leave to rest after. Sandoval stiffled a yawn behind his hand closed over his mouth and was startled by the gasping sound coming from the chair in the middle of the room. Zo'or's form convulsed softly as the blueish hands gripped tightly the end of each arms of the seat.  
  
Curious more than worried, he stepped forward. And finally climbed onto the dais, getting to look down at Zo'or, just for once, and it was extemely satisfying for the ego, he noticed absent-mindly. This curiosity formed by all the things that the perfect, model implant he had been so far had not dared to ask about, or to make a move on, came back, surprisingly. It was in this state of mind that he slowly moved his hand forward, his left one, non-skrilled, Taelons, even unconscious ones, did not like to be touched by skrill, to rest on the Synod Leader's shoulder. The exo-covering was not on, the Human sensed his pathways directly on his skin: it felt strangely warm, warmer than a Human, but not feverish, and it felt also more... alive than anything else Sandoval had ever touched. More confident, he lowered his hand further, seeking more contact, on more than his bare fingertips, placing his whole hand, palm down, on Zo'or's shoulder, at the place where his neck, shoulder and  
upper torso met.  
  
The young Leader shivered at the touch and seemed to... relax strangly, the small convulsions stopped, his form lost its tension slowly, and the implant watched as it did, again ruled by this same not totally revealed curiosity. Satisfied by the very little information he had gained, and also feeling somehow... warmed up by this peace, this kindness he had witnessed, and that he would not witness any where else, in Zo'or as he rested, he slowly broke the contact between the two alien forms and, engaging the energy shower as he stepped down, left the bridge, stopping under the arch to look at the being of light, lost into the surrounding light, that floated around Zo'or like miniature stars.  
  
The Ronald Sandoval of here and now blinked the flashback away, remembering that he at this time at least had the excuse with himself that he was still very partially controled by the motivational imperative of his CVI. But he had no longer this excuse now.  
  
And yet... he could not. He felt rage filling him as mixed feelings brought back with this CVI memory came back in a sudden. He ordered Raven to calm down, and to stop readying for fire.  
  
He knew that somehow he was going to regret this deeply, not to have killed Zo'or when he had the perfect occasion to, the perfect justification, the perfect, anonymous mean and someone who would cover his assassination up. But, it was printed in red letters before his eyes, that he could not kill Zo'or. Could he have killed another Taelon?... He was not really certain about this either. Perhaps was the motivational imperative still... efficient... somehow.  
  
Casting a last look at the Synod Leader's rarely seen peaceful features, even in this troubled, worried sleep, he blocked his right hand into his coat pocket, turned on his heels and walked away, musing seriously about things he prefered not to have to think to. 


End file.
